Tough Luck - Softcover

Starr, Jason

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0375727116 ISBN 13: 9780375727115

Publisher: Vintage, 2003

Synopsis

WINNER: Barry Award for Best Paperback Original

FINALIST: Anthony Award for Best Paperback Original

Mickey Prada's a nice kid. He works hard at a neighborhood seafood market in Brooklyn putting fish on ice. He's got a nice girlfriend. He even delayed college a year, to help his sick dad. But Mickey's got a problem. A customer at the fish store, Angelo Santoro, keeps asking Mickey to place bets for him and Angelo keeps losing. As Angelo gets further in the hole, his bad luck is turning out to be Mickey's too.
 
Now Mickey's got his bookie after him and Angelo's showing him the butt of his pistol rather than paying him back. So when his best friend, Chris, asks Mickey to join him on a can't-lose caper, Mickey decides to go along. But, surefire schemes often have a way of backfiring, and this one is sending Mickey into an uncharted part of Brooklyn, where fish like Chris and Mickey have trouble just staying alive.

About this title

About the Author

Jason Starr is the author of Cold Caller, Nothing Personal, Fake I.D. and Hard Feelings. He lives with his wife and daughter in New York City.

From the Inside Flap

's a nice kid. He works hard at a neighborhood seafood market in Brooklyn putting fish on ice. He s got a nice girlfriend. He even delayed college a year, to help his sick dad. But Mickey s got a problem. A customer at the fish store, Angelo Santoro, keeps asking Mickey to place bets for him and Angelo keeps losing. As Angelo gets further in the hole, his bad luck is turning out to be Mickey s too.

Now Mickey s got his bookie after him and Angelo s showing him the butt of his pistol rather than paying him back. So when his best friend, Chris, asks Mickey to join him on a can t-lose caper, Mickey decides to go along. But, surefire schemes often have a way of backfiring, and this one is sending Mickey into an uncharted part of Brooklyn, where fish like Chris and Mickey have trouble just staying alive.

Reviews

Mickey Prada is a quiet, unassuming teenager working in a fish market and living in Brooklyn, but by the end of this merciless, action-packed black comedy, he might as well be living in hell. Starr (Cold Caller; Hard Feelings) delivers a wild ride through a mob-saturated Italian-American community in 1980s New York, keeping the surprises coming up to the last sentence. A new customer, Angelo Santoro, asks Mickey to place a few sports bets for him. Santoro seems to be a Made Guy, so Mickey doesn't feel he can refuse. But Santoro never makes good on his losses. As Mickey quickly plunges into debt, he grows desperate for a way out, even agreeing to go in on a house robbery with his pal Chris and some guys from his bowling team. From that point on, his downward slide is steep and seemingly unstoppable. A couple of dates with Rhonda, one of the first girls he likes who actually seems to like him back, provide a spell of relief, only to become another torment when her father tells Mickey to stop coming around. The neighborhoods and OTB parlors and other fixtures of the local scene are captured perfectly, and the manic back-and-forth between Mickey and his friends is hilarious. Starr moves deftly through his milieu, twisting expectations and producing a grim comedy, something that may surprise-but shouldn't disappoint-those who know him for his earlier, more straightforward Jim Thompson-style lowlife crime novels.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.

In the noir novel Cold Caller (1998), Starr introduced the kind of opportunistic, self-involved cynic you love to hate and gave him pretty much what he deserved. But Starr's gritty writing and hard-edged cynicism are more difficult to take this time because his protagonist, 19-year-old Mickey Prada, seems to be a pretty nice kid, even though he hasn't had it easy: his mother has died, his father has Alzheimer's, and he can barely make ends meet in his dead-end job. Still, the kid has a good heart, he has aspirations, and he has finally met a girl he really likes. Unfortunately, by the time Starr gets through with him, Mickey is toast--a thief, a suspected killer, and a stalker in the making. Tough luck, indeed. It could easily have turned into melodrama, but Starr has total control of his plot, and he's so relentlessly clever that poor Mickey's life becomes a mesmerizing exercise in personal decline in which every piece smartly falls into place. An unsettling read, but hard to put down. Stephanie Zvirin
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

WHEN THE BIG Italian-looking guy in the pin-striped suit came into Vincent's Fish Market on Flatbush Avenue and Avenue J, Mickey Prada put down the copy of the Daily News he'd been reading and said, "The usual, right?"

"You got it, kid," the big guy said, smiling.

As Mickey filled the order--a pound of cooked shrimp and a small container of cocktail sauce--the guy took out a piece of paper and held it up for Mickey to see.

"Can you believe this shit?" the guy said. "I gotta go into fuckin' court today."

The paper had a lot of writing on it, but all Mickey saw before the guy put it away were the big letters OC written in red in the corner.

"I can't believe they waste my time with this shit," the guy went on, shaking his head. "But I'll get off. I always do."

Mickey rang up the order. After he gave the guy his change from a fifty, the guy stuck out his hand and said, "By the way, name's Angelo. Angelo Santoro."

Mickey wiped his hand clean on his dirty white apron and shook Angelo's big hand.

"Mickey. Mickey Prada."

THAT NIGHT, MICKEY was at his friend Chris's, watching the Islanders-Flyers game on the new color set in Chris's bedroom. During a commercial, Mickey told Chris about Angelo Santoro and the court papers.

"Don't fuck with that guy, whatever you do," Chris said.

"What do you mean?" Mickey asked.

"OC, dickhead. You know what OC stands for, don't you?"

Mickey shook his head.

"Organized crime, moron. Your friend Angelo's a wiseguy."

"Come on," Mickey said.

"Trust me," Chris said. "I know what I'm talking about."

The next time Angelo came into the fish store, a couple of days later, Mickey took a closer look at him. It was hard to tell how old Angelo was because his hair was jet-black, probably colored with Brylcreem, but he looked forty, or maybe a couple of years older. And he definitely had a Mafia way about him. It wasn't just the slicked-back hair and the snazzy clothes--it was the way he acted, always half-smiling and walking with a strut.

Mickey was nicer than usual to Angelo--smiling, asking him how his day was, adding some extra shrimp to his container. Angelo was friendly too, talking about the election next month, predicting that Reagan would kick Mondale's ass.

At the register, while Mickey was ringing up the order, Angelo said, "So you're a football fan, huh, kid?"

"Yeah," Mickey said. "How'd you know?"

"Heard you talking the other day with the black kid who works here. So you think the Jets're gonna do it this year?"

"Hope so," Mickey said.

"It'll be tough," Angelo said, "the way the Fish're playing--seven and oh--but that O'Brien kid looks pretty good out there, and they got that great D. I got season tix you know."

"Really?" Mickey said.

"Yeah, had 'em since sixty-eight."

"You saw the Jets the year they won the Super Bowl?"

"Was at every game, including the big one."

"You were there?"

"January 12, 1969. The Orange Bowl, Miami, Florida. Fifth row, forty-yard line."

"Holy shit," Mickey said.

"Shoulda seen Namath that day, kid, hookin' up with Maynard and Sauer." Angelo pretended to throw a football. "Too bad his fuckin' knees went or he'd still be QBin'. Hey, I don't know if you're interested, but I can't use my tickets for the Jets-Giants game in December. If you wanna use 'em, you can."

"I don't know," Mickey said. "I mean I'd love to go, but I don't think I can afford it."

"Afford? Who said anything about afford? I'm giving you the tickets." Angelo grinned.

"That's okay," Mickey said. "I mean you don't have to do that."

"Hey, don't insult me," Angelo said, suddenly serious. "I said I want to give you the tickets, and I'm giving you the tickets. It's the least I could do for my favorite fish man."

"Okay," Mickey said. "I mean if you really wanna do that."

Angelo smiled widely again. "The game's not till December--I'm sure I'll see you a lot before then. I'll bring the tickets in with me one of these days."

"Thanks," Mickey said.

"You take it easy, now," Angelo said.

THE FOLLOWING MONDAY afternoon Mickey was working at the countertop behind the fish stands, cutting flounder fillets. After he scraped off the scales, he made one short cut under the front fin, just behind the gills, then a longer cut down to the tail. He did the same thing to the other side of the fish, then he scooped out the carcass, pushed the fillets off to the side, and started on the next one.

As Mickey was cutting flounder, Mrs. Ruiz came into the store.

"How are you today, Mrs. Ruiz?"

"Very good, Mickey."

"What can I get for you?"

"You got mussels?"

Mickey rolled up the sleeve on his right arm, flexed his biceps, and said, "Yep."

When Mrs. Ruiz left the store with her usual two pounds of mussels and two pounds of clams for her paella, Charlie came in from the back, holding a big boom box up on his shoulder.

"Turn that shit off," Mickey said.

"Come on," Charlie said, "even white people like this music."

"I'm serious," Mickey said.

Charlie lowered the volume.

"I forgot--you Italian," Charlie said. "You like that John Travolta, Bee Gees shit. On weekends you probably dress up like Deney Terrio and start crankin' the Donna Summer. Come on, it's the truth. You can't hide it."

Mickey couldn't help smiling as Charlie sang along, "And don't ever come down . . . Freebase!"

Charlie continued to sing as Mickey cut into another flounder.

"Mickey Prada, how's it going?"

Mickey turned around and saw Angelo standing there on the other side of the fish stands, wearing one of his pin-striped suits. Angelo hadn't been to the fish store in about a week, and Mickey was surprised Angelo remembered his name.

"How's it goin'?" Mickey said. "Hey, Angelo, this is Charlie."

Charlie and Angelo said hi to each other, then Charlie lowered the music and went to help another customer who'd just come in.

"You know why I'm here," Angelo said to Mickey.

"Coming right up," Mickey said.

As Mickey was putting the cooked shrimp into a one-pound container, Angelo said, "Prada. That's not Sicilian, is it?"

"Nah, my grandfather was from up north," Mickey said.

"Milano?"

"Somewhere around there."

"Eh, what's the difference?" Angelo said. "North, south, you're still from the old country, that's what counts. So tell me something else, kid. What do you want to do with your life?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean here you are, working at a fish store. You go to school?"

"I'm taking a year off, then I'm gonna go to college at Baruch in the city."

"College?" Angelo said like he'd never heard the word before. "What're you gonna learn there?"

"I want to be an accountant," Mickey said.

"Accountant?" Angelo said. "You're not gonna become an IRS agent, are you?"

Mickey laughed. "Nah, I'm just gonna get a job for a company. You know, Ernst and Young or someplace like that."

"Yeah, that sounds good," Angelo said, "I guess. But if you're ever lookin' for something else to do, you come talk to me, all right? If you're good with numbers I can set you up at something, you'll make a good living for yourself. You know anything about numbers?"

"You mean betting numbers?" Mickey said.

Angelo nodded.

"I know a little," Mickey said. "I mean I don't play the numbers myself but--"

"That's okay," Angelo said, "better you don't. The odds of hitting the number are what, a thousand-somethin' to one? I got a better chance of dying today than I got of hitting the number. I'm talking about the other side of the business. You're good with math, you can work on the odds, that kind of thing, right?"

"Thanks," Mickey said. "But I think I'll probably just keep working here . . . until I start school again."

"Hey, it's up to you," Angelo said. "You do whatever you want to do. I'm just saying you're a good kid--I think you're gonna go places. I don't think you need school to get there, neither. I think you can get there right now if you wanted to. But you think about it, you let me know, okay?"

"I will," Mickey said.

Mickey weighed Angelo's shrimp then closed the container. At the register, Angelo said, "So who do you like in the game tonight?"

"The game?" Mickey said.

"Monday Night Football."

"Oh, the Seahawks," Mickey said.

"The Seahawks?" Angelo said. "Come on, Dan Fouts's got the best arm in football. The Chargers are a fuckin' lock tonight."

"I don't know," Mickey said. "The 'Hawks beat up the Chargers last time pretty good, and now they're getting a point. You gotta go with the 'Hawks."

"Oh, so you like to bet on football, huh?" Angelo said, smiling.

"I just bet a few dollars with a bookie every once in a while," Mickey said. "It's no big deal."

"You gotta be careful," Angelo said. "Don't get me wrong--I like a little action every now and...

Edition details

• Publisher: Vintage
• Publication date: 2003
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0375727116
• ISBN 13: 9780375727115
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 256